


Hold The Clouds At Bay

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Adopted Kent Parson, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Family Bonding, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Changes, tense changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jack didn’t know what to say.How could he know?He didn’t know now, as Kent’s fist made contact with his jaw, as narrow eyes watched him from behind the penalty box glass.  As Eric’s fingers pressed to his mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw a few posts on tumblr speculating about Kent being a sibling of someone in SMH, and I thought...well people keep comparing Kent to Bitty and what if...what if...Suzanne gave a baby up for adoption.
> 
> And this was born. Take caution, at the beginning of this fic it talks about Suzanne being drunk and waking up in someone's bed, which implies non-consensual sex, but it's not told in detail.
> 
> To make a few things clear- adoption is a tricky subject. I know people who had amazing experiences with it, and people who had very bad experiences. Giving up a baby for adoption isn't an easy decision for anyone, and there's a lot of raw emotions involved that don't go away, and there is an intense mourning process. No one gives up a baby for adoption on a whim, and I've done my best to portray that decision-making process. So please take caution if child-loss is a trigger for you. I tried to keep it as authentic as I could.
> 
> This fic is in no way representative of every adoption experience. Back when Kent was born, closed adoptions were far more common than they are today. My information is based on some personal experience but it's in the UK so I'm not sure how that would differ in the US.
> 
> I may write a sequel in the future, but I'm not sure.
> 
> Huge thank you to Rainbow-Looking-Glass for all the amazing help. <3 ILY.

_Cos this is the saddest song I've got_  
The saddest song I've got  
Darling are you healing  
From all the scars appearing  
Don't it hurt a lot  
-Annie Lennox

***

Pulling herself from the bed, Suzanne shuffled her socked feet to the door and flung it open. She half expected her mother to be there, with a mug of warm, flat root beer and dry toast. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down for almost four days now, and she’d already heard someone whisper the word mono so…that was great.

She was only vaguely surprised, however, when instead of her mother was her best friend wearing a grin, and holding a plastic bag conspiratorially against her chest. Alicia’s blonde hair was tied back away from her face, her fringe curled off to the side, looking as gorgeous and New York as ever. She grinned and shoved Suzanne to the side.

“Okay since you’re dying and all,” Alicia said, her accent still pronounced in spite of having lived in Georgia for almost three years now, “I figured we can watch the game tonight from your bed. Before I have to like bury you and stuff.”

Suzanne rolled her eyes, but shuffled back to the bed and threw herself face-down. Her hand reached out, patting the spot next to her, which Alicia took up easily. “I’m not dying. Probably. I think my mom thinks it’s mono.”

Alicia raised a brow. “Mono. Like…from Greg or…?”

Suzanne covered her face and groaned, rolling onto her back. “God don’t even remind me, please. It was either him or uh…” The unspoken Halloween party drifted between the pair of them. The Halloween party where Alicia had gone home early, and Suzanne had drowned her sorrows when Mikey—an old friend who’d been off at college—had brought out his parents’ really expensive tequila bottle and said, “Who wants to play quarters?”

Suzanne did. She did, because she’d been nursing the biggest, most terrible crush in the world. She’d been carrying it for nearly two years, and it was becoming unbearable. So she’d played, and lost, and played, and lost. And she’s gotten so drunk she lost time, and woke up in Mikey’s parents’ bed with a love bite on her neck, and her clothes mysteriously missing.

She hadn’t told anyone but Alicia about it. Instead of going home, she’d stumbled her way to Alicia’s house, still half drunk, and knocked on her friend’s window. Alicia had let her in, run a bath, then washed what smelled like tequila vomit from Suzanne’s hair as the other blonde sobbed.

“I don’t know what the hell happened, Ally. I can’t…I can’t remember anything. Fuck. What if…?”

They left the what if unspoken. It was easier that way. Because if that came out, other things might spill and Suzanne wasn’t ready to face any of that. She wasn’t ready to face the idea of not being straight, of what her parents would say, of what Alicia might think.

So she just…didn’t. She kept it inside and let Alicia clean her up, and three weeks later, she started dating Greg.

And now she was probably sick—with a kissing disease, of course—and Alicia was here to make her feel better because life wasn’t torturing her enough already.

“I got you ginger ale,” Alicia said quietly after a minute. She shifted and started pulling things out of the bag. Ginger ale, red vines, a couple of moonpies, and a box of wheat thins. She shifted them to the side, then moved and tugged at Suzanne until her head was in Alicia’s lap. Alicia began to comb through Suzanne’s hair with her fingers, humming a little something under her breath.

“When you’re a rich, famous actress,” Suzanne said sleepily, “You can just pay people to do this?”

“Oh hell no. This is my job,” Alicia said, almost fierce and protective. It made something warm and soft bubble in Suzanne’s belly, but she pushed it aside. “Habs are playing tonight. Is your TV working?”

Suzanne laughed into Alicia’s thigh. “Oh my god. Yes. We can watch your future husband. The things I do for you, even on my death bed.”

“What better way to go out than watch Bob Zimmermann’s glorious ass?”

“And hockey fights?” Suzanne asked, groping for her remote.

Alicia laughed. “Yeah. Those too.”

Suzanne turned on the TV, but there was still half an hour before the game started. Nausea gripped her again, and she looked at the can of lukewarm ginger ale, but the thought of it made her feel worse. She turned more onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut. “I think something else is wrong,” she confessed.

Alicia’s fingers brushed the back of her neck. “Yeah?” It didn’t sound so much like a question though.

But if anyone had figured it out, it would be Alicia, and Suzanne didn’t mind so much. “Um. It’s…I’m…” She swallowed, because the only time she thought about it was when the still, quiet voice in the back of her mind chattered on. Usually late at night, three am, when she couldn’t sleep.

“Do you want to take a test?”

Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut even harder. “Um.”

“I mean, maybe it’s creepy that I noticed,” Alicia went on. “But no period for like four months, nausea, and your boobs are uh. You know. Bigger. All of you is kind of uh. Bigger.”

A few tears trickled out of Suzanne’s eyes, clumping her lashes together. She pressed one hand over her lower belly and felt the barely there swell. “Um.”

“Was it Greg?”

Suzanne let out a breath, shaking her head back and forth against her friend’s leg. “No. No I’ve only…if it was. If this is,” she corrected, “the only time I’ve ever…”

“Shit,” Alicia breathed, and she reached down, drawing Suzanne up, and between her legs, and into an embrace. “Shit. Fuck.”

Letting out a watery laugh, Suzanne nodded. “Yep. Shit and fuck. That’s about all I’ve been able to say for the last few days.”

With an outstretched hand, Alicia dug into the bag for the final thing. A box reading EPT. Suzanne’s heart was in her throat, and she swallowed against it.

“I don’t…I can’t do this.”

“You can do this,” Alicia insisted.

“We graduate in three months,” Suzanne said. “And what do I do then? Go to college with a baby? I…I can’t…”

“You could like…get an abortion. My mom would probably help. She won’t tell yours.”

Suzanne swallowed thickly and her eyes flickered to her desk where her acceptance letter to the University of Georgia sat. She knew there was another letter on Alicia’s desk at home—accepting her to Samwell University. It cut her inside, fierce and deep, bleeding slowly.

“I don’t want to do this without you,” she confessed in a quiet whisper.

Suzanne startled when a warm palm fell on her cheek. She looked up, careful but hopeful, as Alicia’s bright blue eyes locked onto hers. There was a moment, just a breath, and then the distance between them closed. It was everything and nothing like Suzanne had pictured. Everything and nothing like she had spent hours imagining.

Her fingers curled into the front of Alicia’s shirt, Alicia’s lips dancing soft and careful against her own. When it was over. Suzanne opened her eyes, daring herself to look, to search for regret or disappointment. Instead she found hope, and love.

“What…?”

Alicia let out a small laugh, shrugging. “I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time.”

Suzanne swallowed, then laughed too. “Yeah. Yeah I…me too.”

Alicia dipped in and kissed her again, drawing it out, and deeper, and longer. “You should take the test,” she murmured.

The shock of reality brought Suzanne back to herself, and she nodded. She wanted to ignore it, to pretend it didn’t exist. If she did that…if she just let herself forget…

She couldn’t. She pushed up from the bed, and took the box in her hands, and left the room.

It was the longest five minutes of her life.

*** 

Alicia held Suzanne’s face in her hands, kissing the tears from her cheeks. “Suzie, I promise it’ll…”

Suzanne cut her off, her head shaking. “It won’t. It won’t. You…you’re leaving and you’ve got Samwell and they want me to…” She choked on the words as she heard her parents’ voices echoing in her head.

“Have the baby, you can’t give it up, Suzanne, it’s wrong. We’ll raise it as ours. No one needs to know. You can’t do this to us.”

She could though. She was eighteen and about to graduate and go off to college and she _could._ She’d already met a nice family, and she was certain this baby, this little boy she was carrying, would be alright.

“I’ll stay,” Alicia whispered, kissing her again. “I’ll stay and we can go somewhere. I don’t care about Samwell. I don’t care about stupid acting or…”

“Yes you do,” Suzanne said. “And I want to go to college. I don’t want to do any of this. I…it’s better this way. I’m sorry.”

She hadn’t realised, until she reached Alicia’s bedroom, that she’d come here to end it. She pressed her hand over the swollen mass of her stomach. Two months to go. Two. And then it would be over.

She didn’t look at Alicia’s face as she turned to leave. She didn’t show up as they packed up their house and made back for New York.

She ignored the letter Alicia sent right after her tour of Samwell.

She refused to open the magazine spread where she was modelling shoes.

Instead, Suzanne Browne lay in a hospital bed, cradling a six pound, eleven ounce baby with dark eyes and a thatch of blonde hair. The door held a sign that said no visitors, and the sign would remain there for the three days she was allowed to have with this baby.

“I can’t name you,” she whispered to the infant, the newborn clinging to her finger. His little tongue was pushing against his lips, and she reached for the dummy, pushing it between his lips. He sucked on it fiercely, angrily, unaware of his mother’s tears. “If I do, it’ll be too hard to let go.”

Was she telling him, or herself?

A sob ripped from her throat, but she muffled it with the back of her hand as the baby lay in the dip between her thighs. His grip on her tightened and she tried not to think about letting him go.

“You’re going to have a good life. Your new mommy and daddy are really nice. I met them already. They’re going to take you far from here, okay? And love the hell out of you.”

She sniffed, reaching for a tissue to wipe her nose. The room seemed profoundly empty then. The silence pressing, suffocating. She shifted to tuck the baby against her chest, and after a moment, he slept. He’d been doing a lot of that during the day, crying at night. A few times she wanted to ring the nurse, ask them to bring him back to the nursery so she could get some rest but…it was better this way.

It was her penance for choices she made, and things she was responsible for.

There was file folder in the corner of the room with all the adoption paperwork. Mikey’s name was on there. Her adoption lawyer had tracked him down, and he’d signed without a problem. She called once, left him a message, but he never bothered to return the call. Not that she expected him to. It was one night, one bottle of tequila…

And one miracle.

She dragged a finger down the baby’s chubby cheek, and saw a smattering of freckles that matched her own. She almost laughed.

Then she cried.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, or herself. Or maybe Alicia, who she still loved with such a burning passion, it was a wonder her insides weren’t ash by now. “Two mommies without a nickel to their names, and just enough education to work the register at Chick Fil A just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. And they promised to love you.”

Maybe if she said it enough, the Universe would ensure it would be true, and stay true for the rest of this baby’s life. Once that door opened and the case worker took him, she would lose all control.

She didn’t know the parents’ names. She’d met them once, just to get a feel for them and it was…it felt okay. It felt right, though she wasn’t sure she trusted herself. But the file would be sealed, and the baby wouldn’t know. Unless they told him, he wouldn’t know.

“I hope they never spoil it for you,” she whispered.

*** 

Thirteen hours later, the door opened.

Thirteen hours later, he was gone.

Thirteen hours later, Suzanne Browne picked up her case, left her parents’ house for good, and showed up at her new apartment in Atlanta. University awaited.

She was halfway to the door when she tripped, her case falling to the side, but before she could reach it, a firm, strong hand dipped down and righted her. Her eyes blinked, startled, and she stared into a soft, handsome face who was grinning at her.

“Careful there, now, miss.”

She flushed. “Oh. Um. Thanks,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I just moved in and I’m…a little out of my league.”

He laughed, grabbing her case and hauling it under his arm. “Student?”

She nodded as he got the door for her, and they headed for the stairs. “Yeah. Freshman.”

“Sophomore,” he said. “I’m on the football team. Eric Bittle,” he said, and extended his free hand.

She blushed again, and felt a swooshing in her gut she hadn’t felt since…well. Since another blonde with bright blue eyes. She took his hand in hers. “Suzanne Browne.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Say uh…you wouldn’t want to maybe get pizza after this?”

She grinned. “Pizza…sounds great.”

*** 

Glancing up from her place by the counter, Olivia looks up at the small, three year old boy with wild cowlicks, freckles, and a thumb in his mouth. Doing her best not to cry, she opens her arms and waits for him to shuffle into them. “Hi mon petit coeur.”

“Où est papa?” he asks quietly, muffled by his thumb still between his teeth.

“He had to leave,” she says in English, because her husband is in France now. Ex…ex husband. And he’s with her, and Olivia doesn’t think she’ll see him again. She’s saying goodbye to the house, and it’s a miracle she’s keeping this boy they fought so hard for. But Kent was always hers.

“Pour quoi?”

“In English, baby,” she says. She’s going to get herself an American husband, and things will be better. They’ll be okay.

“Why? Papa…why?” he tries, because he’s only just started speaking English at his little pre-school.

She sighs. “He just had to. It’s okay, mama’s here though.”

Kent doesn’t really understand, but her tone comforts him, and she whispers that to him every night when he goes to sleep.

He never looks at her like he knows there’s something different. Not for a long time, anyway. He doesn’t question why he’s so pale, and blonde, when her skin is olive and her hair a rich black. His nose is small and upturned, hers is wide and large and beautiful. He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t think about it until he’s thirteen and the boys at the rink are chirping him, and his father is staring at him with disdain because he’s once-again caused a fight and the coaches had to call him down.

Once again, his father says, “If it wasn’t for your talent, I’d take this away from you to teach you a lesson. You’re ungrateful.”

Kent sighs and ignores him. He skates off, and one of the other boys laughs. “Well he ain’t your dad.”

Kent blinks. “So?”

“So that ain’t your mom, either. Look at her.”

This time…Kent does.

He asks a week later. “Mama?”

She’s at the stove making pancakes, humming a little tune she used to sing to him when he was very little. The sound of it calms his anxiety as he kicks his feet on the stool. “Why don’t I look like you?”

She turns slowly, and he sees her smile is strained, and there’s a line of tension running from her shoulders to her neck. “What do you mean, loulou?”

She hasn’t called him that in years, and he knows then something’s…not right. He swallows. “My dad. I…I’ve seen photos. He looks like you uh…kinda. Sammy looks like you. And dad. I have blonde hair. Some of the boys were saying…” He shrugs.

“It’s the French blood. You just haven’t met the rest of your family. You take after my tatie, Kent. She was a redhead.”

 _I’m not a redhead_ , he thinks, but she puts pancakes in front of him and for the moment, he forgets about it. Even when Sammy is angry at him and screams, “I wish you weren’t my brother,” and even when he gets another D in maths and his dad mutters about how he should be a better child, he doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t think about it for three more years.

Until he gets accepted into the QMJHL, on scholarship, and he learns he’s failing three of his core classes for his Sophomore year.

And his father is angry.

“I don’t understand how you’re like this,” he’s saying, voice dripping with venom. “We raised you better than this. It’s got to be genetics.”

“Stop blaming everything on my father,” Kent says, even though he kind of blames everything on the man who walked out when Kent was three. But really, he’s just angry. “I’m tired of having to work so hard to be fucking loved.”

His dad’s eyes widen at the swear—he hates swearing. Kent thinks maybe he’ll be slapped for it, but instead his dad steps back and says, “You should consider yourself lucky to be loved at all. When your mother chose you from the adoption agency, she thought she’d get better than some…failure.”

That’s when Kent’s world crashes around him.

His mother comes home and doesn’t deny it. He demands to see the papers, but she doesn’t have any. “It was a closed adoption. I only met her once, I never learned her name,” she confesses. “Your father couldn’t…we couldn’t conceive so…” She breathes. She glares at her husband and mutters something like, “He shouldn’t have found out like this.”

And his father says, “You should have told him earlier. Maybe he’d have tried harder to be a better son if he knew how lucky he was.”

Kent knows his mother’s too afraid to try and make it on her own to leave him. Even if he is awful. But Kent doesn’t care.

He’s angry now.

He’s angry now, and he’s angry when he reaches his new billet home, and meet his new roommate…Jack Zimmermann.

*** 

The first thing Jack knew about Kent Parson was that he played like he had something to prove.

The second thing he knew about him, was he was angry.

He doesn’t understand the second thing right away, but the first…he gets it. Kent Parson is good. He’s not better than Jack, but he has the potential to be, with the right equipment and the right training. Everyone was well aware Kent was there on scholarship—not the only kid, but he was the one rooming with the son of Bad Bob Zimmermann and Jack knew…he assumed…it was part of the reason Kent had been trying so hard.

The second thing well…at first Jack assumed it was the French. Kent barely spoke a word, but when he did, it was always in English, though he didn’t have trouble following their coach’s directions. But the others took notice. Not all of them were Francophone, but all of them had a basic understanding—and could at least chirp each other.

Kent never did.

It wasn’t until one of the boys cornered Kent on the ice and spat in his face, “Nique ta mere,” that Kent truly lost it. His gloves dropped, and by the time they were able to pry Kent off the kid, his knuckles were bruised, and the kid had a black eye that would last for weeks.

Kent was dragged off, spitting, “You leave my mother out of this, you waste of space!”

He was suspended for two games, and Jack didn’t argue.

But he did corner Kent in their room. Kent’s case was propped up by the door, half empty from their last trip home. Jack had no idea if Kent ever really left for weekends or holidays. He was there when Jack left, and he was there when Jack returned. But sometimes his case was empty, and sometimes it was full, and sometimes Kent was still living out of it, so Jack just assumed at some point, the kid saw his parents.

He knew Kent was going to turn eighteen over the summer. His birthday was one year and one month before Jack’s, during the American independence day—Jack had seen it a few times when they went to visit his mother’s family in New York. He was never really big on the holiday, but when one of the boys brought it up during a party Kent had just laughed and said, “Yeah man. All those fireworks? They’re for me.”

In the room now, Jack stared at Kent who was icing his knuckles, and in the thick silence said in French, 'Why do you pretend like you don’t know what they’re saying? You could understand me this entire time.'

“I don’t know,” Kent replied in English.

Jack growled at him, closing the distance between them and lifting Kent to his feet by the front of his shirt. When Kent first got there, he and Jack were closer in size. Jack was still shorter, and still a little chubby. But after a year, Jack had gained six inches and about thirty pounds of pure muscle. Lifting Kent was easy, and so was reading the fear in his eyes.

“In French,” Jack commanded.

Kent shook his head.

“Pour quoi?” Jack demanded.

Kent licked his lips. “Because I…!” He stopped, realising he was shouting. “Parce que,” he began. Then, the strangest thing…he kissed Jack. He grabbed Jack by the wrists where Jack was holding him, and he mashed their lips together.

Several things became clear at once. Jack had never been good at reading anything—the room, emotions, his friends, himself. He knew Hockey, he knew his anxiety, and he knew the hot, bubbling resentment directed at his father.

That was it.

But with this kiss he knew other things. He suddenly knew why his gaze lingered on Kent whenever they were on the ice, or in the shower. He knew why at parties he never told Kent no when a beer was pushed at him, even if taking it with his meds was bad. He suddenly knew why he loved when Kent would get tipsy and crawl into Jack’s lap. He knew suddenly why he loved seeing Kent smile.

Kent stiffened, like he wanted to pull back, but Jack kept kissing, kissing, kissing, until they were both breathless and gasping and falling down on Jack’s bed.

They kissed until they were too scared to get any further, and finally Jack pulled away. He didn’t go far, and he didn’t let go.

The next time Kent spoke, it was still in English, and it was barely above a whisper. “I was three when my dad walked out. My parents came here from France. They had me…” He stopped and shook his head. Slamming a hand over his face, he dragged it down hard, groaning. “They adopted me. They fucking adopted me.”

Jack had never seen photos of Kent’s parents. He didn’t know. “Oh,” was all he could think to say.

Kent rolled onto his stomach, burying his face half in Jack’s sleeve, half into the pillow. “I just found out. My dad he…when I was three, the bastard walked out, went back to France, married some woman I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once since then. My mom remarried some asshole, and they had my sister. She’s the real kid, you know? Looks like them and everything. My mom told me I took after her side of the family but he…” Kent’s voice cracked and Jack wanted to hold him a little tighter, but was afraid to scare him off. “He was pissed at me and told me I should be lucky they love me because I’m adopted and why couldn’t I be a better son.”

“Fuck,” Jack whispered.

Kent let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“Fucking came here, didn’t I?” Kent said, then pushed himself harder against Jack until Jack opened his arms and enveloped Kent in them. “Fuck them. Whatever, I’ll show them. I’m going to get drafted and fucking win like ten Stanley Cups and then he’ll be fucking sorry.”

“You will,” Jack said. He wasn’t sure he believed that. He had his own plans to win cups and he doubted he and Kent would be drafted to the same team, but Kent was good enough to get a few of his own. Jack understood at least that. “Come home with me next weekend.”

Kent shook his head. “Nah, Zimms. I don’t…that’s not a good idea.”

“For your birthday, then,” Jack begged. “My parents wanna meet you. I talk about you uh…a lot.”

Kent pulled back and stared at him, then laughed. “Yeah?”

Jack nodded sagely. “Yeah. Kenny. Please?”

Kent breathed, closed his eyes, kissed Jack again, then whispered against his lips, “Yeah.”

*** 

Alicia knows the minute she sets eyes on the blonde boy with the colour changing eyes, and cowlicks. She knows, because it’s like staring into the face of one person she always thought she’d love. One person who said goodbye and never spoke to her again.

She almost says it. “Suzanne.” She wasn’t prepared, but in a way, maybe she was? Because Jack had come home near tears telling her and Bob about the horrible thing his friend had gone through. He’d been shaking when he retold the story of ‘Kenny’s’ pain and suffering.

He’d declined offers over and over to visit, though he’d met Bob when Bob went to watch Jack’s games. Alicia had tried to come, but she’d been working most of that year. But Kent’s there now and Alicia knows him, and she can’t say it because…well, it’s not her place. And she’s not sure she can even get through a conversation with this boy before she starts crying.

She thinks maybe it’s a little serendipitous that Jack’s in love with him. And she knows it. She can see it in the way her boy looks at Kent, with his heart on his sleeve. Jack was never good at hiding those things from her. She’d have noticed sooner, if she hadn’t been so busy.

Bob notices her though, late that night in bed. He holds her face and kisses her and whispers, “Tell me, mon coeur.”

She shakes her head, but the story comes tumbling out as though she didn’t have a choice. She’d kept this secret a long, long time. “I loved her,” she confesses. “I…I love you and I wouldn’t trade you or Jack for the world, but…Bobby, I would have stayed, if she’d asked me.”

Bob doesn’t look hurt. He looks at Alicia like he always has—like he’s in awe of everything about her.

Eventually Alicia goes into the closet and digs up a few photos from high school. Bob’s seen them before, but he didn’t know who the cute blonde was—at least the gravity of who she was, until now. And staring at her face, they see Kent there.

“Do we tell him?” Bob asks.

Alicia shakes her head. “Closed adoption. We don’t have the right. And I…I haven’t talked to her in years.”

“What do we do?” he asks, holding on as they lay in bed. “He’s in pain, that boy. So much pain.”

She knows. He’s putting on a brave face, but he’s even worse at hiding it than Jack is. She closes her eyes and plays with his fingers and says, “We do what we can to let him know he’s got a home here. I had a chance. Eighteen years ago, I had a chance, but she turned me down. Maybe this is my do-over.”

Bob just nods, and kisses her, and she wonders if it’s really true. If this is her second chance.

*** 

But it isn’t.

Almost exactly one year later, her son overdoses, Kent is drafted to Las Vegas, and everything she thought she had slipped through her fingers again.

In the hospital, as they wait for Jack to wake up, she thinks, _I wonder if Suzie should know about this._

Then they tell her Jack’s going to live, and she forgets about anything except her son for the next three years.

*** 

Eric Bittle is five years old the first time he realises his mother cries on the fourth of July.

It’s not the first time he’s seen it, but it’s the first time he processes her tears. He tugs at her skirts and lifts his arms and hops up and down on his tippy toes. “Mama. But why are you sad, mama?”

She lifts him and nuzzles her nose into his cheek and whispers, “Several years ago something really happy happened on this day. But it was also really sad for your mama.”

Eric stares at her with his big, brown eyes and those freckles, and his little mouth turned down. “But it’s ‘merica’s birthday, mama. There are fireworks.”

“There are,” she says, and wipes her cheeks. She sets him on the counter next to the pie she’s rolling out, and puts it into the pie pan. “Fireworks for a lot of things.”

“But,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “how can you get happy?”

“I am happy, baby. But I have a little bit of sad, so I’m going to tuck it right here into this pie. When it bakes, and mingles in with the sugar, it’ll sweeten up and make everyone smile.”

“Put sads in pies?” Eric asks.

She smiles, and her tears are dry now and she says, “Exactly. Put the sads in the pies. Now you go on and play. Git.” She swats his butt and he runs, nearly crashing into his grandma. He doesn’t like her as much as MooMaw—she’s always frowning and always looks at Eric wrong. Different.

He only lingers in the room long enough to hear her say, “I can’t believe you still cry over that, Suzie? It’s been nine years, and really, who’s fault was it?”

He doesn’t like the way his grandma talks to his mama, so he runs. His daddy’s standing by the grill and catches him, and Eric giggles, and forgets all about his mama’s sads that she’s tucking away into her pie.

The fourth of July goes on without a hitch.

The fireworks are gorgeous.

Four days later, his mama stops crying.

*** 

Eric didn’t need to stop and wonder why his heart was thudding against his ribs when Jack threw his arm around him and bent over for a selfie. Eric didn’t even really need to ask himself whether or not he was going to keep the photo—several variations of it, with a hundred different filters—when Jack walked away. Of course he was.

The one single bit of proof he’d have that Jack Zimmermann liked him…even if it was just friendship.

Eric never really had to wonder about that. Never questioned it.

But then there was that voice. “Hey Zimms. Didja miss me?”

Eric had seen Kent Parson before. Jack watched Aces games when he could, and Ransom and Holster talked about Parse like he was some sort of God. Eric had been worshipping Beyonce for long enough that he got starstruck by proxy. Kent’s smile was wide, and easy, and his blonde cowlicks were tucked under his snapback. The flashing party lights glinted off freckles which looked like Eric’s, speckled like constellations over a similar upturned nose.

There was something about it, something about his grin, which made Eric stop and think. Stop and ask, “Can we take a selfie,” even when he could tell that Jack wasn’t okay.

And there was something boiling in his belly when he saw Kent walking out of Jack’s room, Jack clearly ruffled and terrified, and Kent looking…

Well Eric had seen looks like that before. He was well-practised in them. Looks of vicious hurt and anger, lashing out passive aggressively to avoid feeling any more pain. He’d learnt that growing up in Georgia. From his mama who never missed the opportunity to spit polite venom at her own mother.

His family was complicated, and clearly whatever Jack and Kent had was complicated.

But Eric was in love with Jack and that took over everything.

Later…much later…so much later, Eric learnt the truth. Jack and Kent had hooked up in the Q. Jack thought it was less, Kent thought it was more. There was something in Jack’s tone, a secret Eric knew he wasn’t sharing, but that was okay. Eric didn’t need to know everything. He trusted Jack would tell him when it was important, and sometimes people needed to keep their past locked away.

Lord knew the sort of stuff Eric hadn’t been able to bring himself to confess.

Maybe some day, but not yet.

Kent Parson haunted him though. Like a ghost of a man not dead, hovering around their conscious thoughts. Sometimes Jack would get a funny look on his face when the press would talk about him, and Eric wanted to ask, but he knew it was pointless. Jack insisted it was nothing—it had never been anything.

Most of the time Eric could forget about it. Most of the time he didn’t think twice. 

Then he met Alicia Zimmermann for the first time, and it was only then he started to form real questions.

“Mama, papa,” Jack said, “this is my boyfriend. Eric Bittle.”

Eric had met Bob a few times before during parent weekends. Alicia had been tied up and couldn’t make it, but they’d come down specifically for the holiday this time around. It was Eric’s first experience with Chanukah and he was all nerves, but the Zimmermanns were making it easy.

Well. Except the look Alicia had given him.

“Eric,” she said as they sat down. “Eric you’re…from Georgia, right?”

Eric didn’t miss the sudden, sharp look Bob gave her. “Yes, ma’am. Born and raised Madison boy. Have you ever been?”

Alicia was quiet a moment, then said, “I have. My parents lived there for a short time, when I was in high school. I…your mother. Suzanne Browne, right?”

Eric was startled. The shock of it hit him, and he turned to Jack who looked equally startled and he said, “Mama, you never said…”

“I didn’t realise, until now,” she confessed. She laughed and shook her head. “Suzie Browne. She…is she…how is she?”

Eric glanced at Jack who seemed a little nervous, but he decided now was probably not the time. “She’s real good. She and Coach are looking forward to meeting you both. Um. Again…I guess?”

Alicia nodded, poking at her brisket with the edge of her fork. “Of course, yes. We’d…I’d love to see her again. Send her my regards when you talk to her, will you?”

Eric nodded, and he knew he was missing something huge. Something massive, and terrifying, but he was too afraid to ask. Eric had only stumbled on secrets like that once or twice in his life, and they weren’t experiences he wanted to repeat. Ever. But Alicia was smiling now and recounting some Halloween party his mama and she had gone to and they were all laughing again and it was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

“…and tell him what? Bobby this is…I can’t.”

“Alicia,” Bob’s voice said, pressing and urgent. They were in the kitchen, and Eric had gotten up to get water, freezing in the hallway when he heard their voices. “This is getting too much. Eric and Jack…they need to know.”

“But Kent…”

“It’s only fair. The last time I spoke with Kent he mentioned…” Bob stopped, breathed, then sighed. “I think he’s hiring a private investigator. He’s going to find out, and I think Eric and Jack should…be told. You know you can trust them.”

In a blind panic, Eric fled.

*** 

Kent holds the papers in his hands like they might explode if he moves wrong. His fingers are sweating, and he can see the back of the PI walking away, pockets loaded with cash because this had been a difficult assignment. It wasn’t easy to trace closed adoptions and finding people who could do it cost him a pretty penny.

It was worth it.

He thinks.

After this many years he was finally brave enough to do this. After this many years, and the death of his mother. No one really knows about that yet. It’s only been a week, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to really accept it. There’s an ache in his chest, and he knows it’s going to be so much worse the moment he opens it up to examine it all.

Part of him wishes he’d done this before.

Part of him is glad he never has to see the look on her face of pain and betrayal for wanting to know where he came from. For wanting to know if he really had been better off without them.

Maybe if Frank hadn’t come into the picture but…

He breathes.

He opens the envelope, his fingers shaking. He has a flight to Providence in three hours, and a game in six. He can do this. He can know, and he can skate, and he can win.

And he can do this.

He looks at the papers and his eyes blur. Only part of him is surprised. With how fucked his life has always been, he can’t muster more than a muted sob as he turns his face into the cushions and fights back a vicious scream because of course.

Of course.

Of. Fucking. Course.

*** 

Jack felt Eric take his hand and squeeze it. A quick motion, trying to be discrete and he appreciated it. He appreciated it because he’d just read the text that had come in from his father.

**Kent’s mother died, and I think he knows.**

He knows. He knows. It echoed in Jack’s brain. He would have to face Kent on the ice in less than two hours, and Kent knew. Kent’s mother was dead…

And he knew.

Merde.

Twelve minutes into the game, and the second time Kent checked Jack into the boards, he dropped gloves. Jack had been expecting it, and took the punch to the jaw without fighting back. Kent was dragged off to the penalty box, and Jack saw Bittle’s face in the crowd, looking stricken.

It was a lot. It was too much. Eric was still processing the information Bob and Alicia had confessed.

“We’re not sure,” Alicia said quietly. “I haven’t spoken to Suzanne since the night she stepped off my porch. But I knew her plan, I knew she was going to give the baby up for adoption. I called on the sixth of July. Her parents answered and they were vague at first, but they eventually realised I knew. They told me she was in the hospital and…” Alicia trailed off and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “I didn’t think twice about it again. Not until Jack brought Kent home.”

Jack couldn’t stop staring at Eric after that. Tracing the lines of his face, seeing what he hadn’t seen before. The differences, the similarities. The way Eric’s nose upturned in the same way, and three small freckles by his left nostril. The way Eric’s hair cowlicked, in the back but still the same wild manner that could never be tamed.

Crisse.

It was…it was so much.

Eric kept it together until Bob and Alicia were gone. Then he collapsed in Jack’s arms and cried. He paced half the night, muttering to himself, desperate to call his mother but too afraid to know whether or not Alicia was right.

“But she did,” Eric said, his voice cracking. “She…was pregnant before me. She…there was…” He sat down hard on the bed and started to laugh. The sound was startling, different than Jack had ever heard, and he moved almost like he had no choice, wrapping himself around Eric from behind. He rested his chin on Eric’s shoulder and held tight. “When was about seven, we were at Sunday dinner and they were talkin’ about the ten plagues. You know…in Egypt? From the Bible?”

“Mmhmm,” Jack hummed.

“They got to the worst one, plague upon the first born and I remember teasin’ my cousin John because he was always so mean to me. I said, ‘Johnny you’d be dead and I’d still be alive because I was first born.’ I remember my mama giving me this look…” Eric stopped, swallowed, then sobbed. “I didn’t know. She never told me. I don’t even know if Coach knows.”

Jack pressed his lips against Eric’s thrumming pulse, as though his kisses could draw out the pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Bits.”

He cried a little while longer, then dozed. Sometime, in the hazy dawn, Eric turned in the bed and asked him, “What do we tell Kent? Do you think he knows? Jack I…” Eric squeezed his eyes shut. “I took a selfie with him once. Epikegster. The night I vowed to hate him the rest of my life because the way he talked to you.”

Jack didn’t know what to say.

How could he know?

He didn’t know now, as Kent’s fist made contact with his jaw, as narrow eyes watched him from behind the penalty box glass. As Eric’s fingers pressed to his mouth.

Kent knew.

And Jack was lost.

*** 

Kent’s in the empty corridor now, having sat in the locker room refusing to change, refusing to _think_ until everyone’s gone. He attempts to drown himself in the hot stream of the shower, but it doesn’t work.

He thinks he can escape unscathed, until he can process…well…everything.

But then he hears footsteps and he’s there. Jack’s boyfriend. Eric Bittle. The kid from the party.

His bro—

No. He can’t even think it. The kid doesn’t even say anything, he just shoves a folded up piece of paper at Kent and walks—nearly runs—and a door slams and Kent finds himself backing up against the wall so he doesn’t collapse right there.

He doesn’t read the folded up piece of paper. He puts it in his pocket and leaves.

Sometime around ten he’s at a bar, and the paper in his pocket feels like a two tonne weight. His fingers itch to read it, because clearly they know. They’ve probably always known. Maybe it was all a big joke. Maybe he and Jack sat round laughing about how Kent was the relationship appetiser, and Jack got the gourmet entrée in the younger one.

Fuck.

His hands curl round his glass and he’s about to down his second shot of whiskey when the stool next to him is occupied. He doesn’t look over until he hears a too-familiar voice.

“Why you look like you want to cry?”

He splutters, “Mashkov?”

And it’s true. It’s Mashkov. They’re close enough to DC that he finds himself wishing maybe it was Ovi instead, because for all that Mashkov is terrifying on the ice, there’s a good chance Ovi would probably beat the shit out of him for realsies in public and that would at least make him forget.

It would be a lot easier to focus on physical pain than…than this.

Instead he turns and shrugs and says, “My mom died. Wanna fuck me?”

He doesn’t expect Mashkov to say yes.

*** 

In the bed, Kent’s grunting into the pillow and Mashkov’s got him spread wide and wet and the sound of skin hitting skin and his prostate being pummelled by his giant cock lets him forget for a little while.

But he comes eventually and Mashkov throws the condom in the bin and the moment he flops next to Kent, Kent breaks. He doesn’t mean to. But he’s already in the foetal position and he just starts shaking and he sobs because if he doesn’t do _that_ , he’s going to fucking scream, and then he’ll get kicked out of the hotel or some shit.

He expects Mashkov to leave because hell, that’s what he’d do if it were him. If some guy he just pity fucked started crying, Kent would have his jeans on and snapback in hand and would have high-tailed it before the guy could get half his name out.

But Mashkov wraps the duvet round them instead and holds Kent against his chest until he’s cried out. He whispers stupid shit in Russian Kent only half understands, and stays like that until Kent sleeps.

Come morning, Mashkov is gone, but there’s a note on the pillow in some of the worst handwriting Kent has ever seen.

_Call me. My number ))) Had fun, you not so bad off ice, Kent Parson._

Kent puts the number in his phone, but he doesn’t call or text. Instead he gets himself together, calls his therapist, gets an emergency script of Xanax sent to the pharmacy down the street. He takes a shower, takes a pill, gets on the plane, and goes home.

*** 

It’s with Kit in his arms that he finally reads the note Bittle left him.

He swears that words shouldn’t have the power to both rip his heart out and start some sort of fucked up healing process, but maybe that’s Bittle’s gift.

Who the fuck knows.

**Kent. I don’t know what to say. I just learnt and I guess you know now too. I think the only people who know are Bob, Alicia, Jack, mama, and me. And I guess God. I can’t bring myself to call my mama yet, but I felt like I could at least talk to you. Or at least, leave you this note because I ain’t as brave as people think I am. But you can call me if you want. We can talk. I’m not ready to tell anyone. But if you want to tell her…you can.**

Kent waits an entire week, but eventually he’s brave enough to make the call.

“Bittle. I…”

There’s a long pause.

“It’s okay,” Bittle says, and Kent squeezes his palms so tight, his nails bite into his skin. Bittle has no right to comfort him, no right to be kind. No right to feel any way about this because he got everything Kent didn’t and…

“Can I come see you?”

Bittle breathes. He sighs. Then says, “Yeah.”

*** 

The flight is several hours long. Kent cries three times into his little neck pillow. When he gets off the plane, Bittle is there without Jack.

Kent’s never been so grateful for anything in his entire life.

*** 

It’s midnight, and Kent can’t believe he got Bittle to give up Alexei’s address, but he had, and he was there. He was on the porch with his fist curled, poised to knock, and he panicked a minute because he didn’t know shit about Mashkov.

He could be married. Or involved. Or…

Fuck knows.

But he knocked anyway, and knocked and knocked until the bleary-eyed giant opened the door looking murderous. The look melted into concern, and he didn’t say anything until he dragged Kent inside and pushed him up against the door.

He put one hand on Kent’s cheek and held it there, softer than Kent had ever been touched. Had ever deserved to have been touched. “Tell me.”

Kent blinked, and his eyes were hot and he was so fucking tired of crying. “I found my birth mother and I’m not sure I…” He swallowed and shook his head. “I can’t.”

He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but Mashkov seemed to get it, because when he fucked Kent this time, it was face to face. He held Kent’s face between his hands and whispered his name over and over, and kissed him when he came.

When it was over, Alexei draped himself half over Kent, and held his hand. “Date me.”

Kent blinked. “What the fuck?”

“I know. Is difficult time, is…must be secret, in NHL. But I’m like you. Pretty blonde hair and good at sex. Why not?”

“Because I’m a fucking disaster. You don’t want me, Mashkov.”

“Is Alexei,” he corrected. “And I’m want. You not disaster, just sad. Just sad solnyshko. But we all sad sometimes.”

Kent almost laughed, but then Alexei kissed him and it felt so warm and so soft and apart from the fact that he was so fucking angry and nothing seemed right, this did. This felt…like maybe he was allowed to have something that was just his. That no one could take away. That no amount of money paid to a PI could ever tell him that what he thought he knew was a fucking lie.

No smug man with a bad comb-over could sit him down and tell him, “You should consider yourself lucky to be loved. You were never real.”

Because this felt real. The soft look in Alexei’s eyes felt real. So did the kissing. And the warm hands brushing down his ribs and keeping him close.

It’s all he could do to keep himself together, but he let his hands tangle with Alexei’s, and he let his head nod and he let himself whisper, “Well…we can try.”

*** 

It’s Jack who eventually suggests they get together—all of them. Now that they all know. Now that Eric is out to his parents, and Jack has introduced Eric to the team as his boyfriend, and now that twitter let Jack’s new years kiss with his boyfriend go viral.

It’s time.

Eric is terrified but he agrees, and he can hear the trepidation in Alicia’s voice, but she seems excited to see Suzanne again.

The meeting is awkward, and Eric is damn-near to losing it when they go off to the terrace and cry and hug each other. He wants to tell her, to ask her if Coach knows. If anyone besides her horrible mother ever knew.

They come back in, puffy-eyed and pink cheeked, and Eric knows Alicia didn’t spill. Not yet. Because really it’s not up to them.

The meeting with Kent had been as awkward as any meeting could go. Kent was hurt and angry and confused, and Eric knew exactly what he meant, and yet he also knew he’d never understand what Kent had gone through. They talked a little about Eric’s childhood and Kent felt a little better knowing Eric hadn’t grown up with parents who fought his battles and wanted to march in the Pride Parade.

He didn’t ask much though, and Eric just left it telling him, “It’s up to you. If you ever want her to know.”

It’s hard to keep it all inside now. He texts Kent that night. **She’s here. Do you…want her to know?**

_No. I’m not ready. I’m sorry._

**Don’t be sorry. But maybe come and see me soon?**

Eric’s feeling a little desperate to have something between him and Kent, because they’re…oh hell they’re brothers, in whatever way you can consider them brothers. And he loves Jack, but no one will understand the feeling of betrayal or confusion the way Kent will.

Jack respects it, even if Eric knows it stings.

*** 

It’s been a year. It’s the third of July and Eric’s not going to Madison this year. Jack’s in New York with his parents for the night—he’ll be back before noon the next day. They’ve invited Kent, but didn’t hear back from him. So Eric sits on the sofa in Providence and watches some old home videos of himself when he was little that his mama sent. Jack thinks Alicia will probably steal them and put together some ridiculous montage for their wedding. Eric’s both touched and horrified by the thought.

Eric’s not entirely surprised when, around eleven that night, the buzzer interrupts his movie-fest. He hits pause and opens the door, and Kent’s there. He’s dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes downcast.

Eric doesn’t say much, just lets him in. They walk into the living room and Eric picks up the half-gone pint of Ben and Jerry’s and hands it over. Wordlessly, Kent digs through it, pulling out chunks of cookie dough and eating them.

They’re shoulder to shoulder, feet up on the table.

“Does she know? That you know, I mean? Not about me but uh…”

Eric shakes his head. “No.”

“So you don’t know why she uh. You know…gave me up?”

Eric winces, and he turns to Kent. “Alicia told me. She was…they were seventeen. She’d gotten wasted and woke up in some guy’s bed. She didn’t know for a while, and when she did, he was long-gone. Alicia offered to stay with her. To marry her and get a little apartment and raise y—and raise the baby.”

Kent’s eyes squeeze shut, and Eric thinks he’s wondering what that would have been like. Suzanne and Alicia. And Kent.

Means Kent wouldn’t have been his name.

Means Eric wouldn’t have existed.

Or Jack.

“She ever meet my folks?” Kent asks quietly.

“I think she said…she did,” he confesses. “Alicia was gone before she had uh.”

“Me,” Kent finishes.

Eric nods. “I know she met my dad the day she moved into her apartment in Atlanta. They waited a long time before I was born.”

Kent licks his lips and puts the ice cream down, then looks at Bitty. “There’s a part of me that hates you—and I’m sorry because it’s not your fucking fault. And shit, I know what an asshole I am. It’s…it feels better now. Alexei and I…” He stops and sighs. “It takes the edge off. Because he likes me for…whatever. For me.”

“I don’t blame you,” Eric whispers.

Kent laughs. “Yeah well…it’s all really fucked up. But we’re family, right?”

Eric wants to ask what that even means. What is family when it’s broken and confused and scared? But he can’t deny it’s something he wanted. Even if it would be weird, with Jack and…and everything. Kent’s happy though. As happy as he can be, considering. He’s moved on and it’s pretty obvious he loves Alexei.

“I thought I’d be angrier. You got…you got the boy I wanted, and the parents that were mine who rejected me,” Kent says through a heavy breath. “But you didn’t ask for any of that, and…” Kent rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “I want something. I spent so damn long without anything. Messed up, right?”

Eric shakes his head. “I want something too.” He holds his breath for a minute. “Do you ever want to tell her?”

“I don’t know,” Kent confesses.

Eric can’t help his laugh because, “Yeah. Me too. But at least we have each other.”

Kent’s eyes cut to the tv. “Can we watch that?”

Eric stiffens. “It’s…I mean…”

“I don’t know if I ever want to know her,” Kent says. “In person. But I still want to _know_ her. Is that really fucked up?”

Instead of answering, Eric lays his head on Kent’s shoulder, and pushes play. He feels Kent go tense, then relax when Eric kicks his ankle. “Siblings are supposed to annoy you,” Eric supplies.

Kent laughs and whispers, “Fuck.”

But it’s full of emotion Eric can’t name, but he can feel, and he thinks maybe it won’t ever be really good. But it’ll definitely be alright.

*** 

_“Pick me up! Daddy, pick me up,” five year old Eric Bittle shouts, and giggles when his father does just that. His mother nearby watches, shakes her head, smiles. “Make me a football!”_

_Suzanne gasps and shouts, “Don’t you dare, Eric Richard…”_

_The tall man doesn’t listen. He tucks Eric under one arm, the other outstretched like he’s blocking tackles, and he runs. The person holding the camera—no one remembers who anymore—is laughing. Then Suzanne is laughing._

_She rolls her eyes to the camera and shakes her head. She looks happier than she’s looked in ten years._


End file.
